


The Windows of the Soul

by Crone_of_the_Western_Sea



Category: Father Brown (2013)
Genre: Case Fic, F/M, Post-Case, Romance, mention of rape and domestic violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-12-22 11:48:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11966745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crone_of_the_Western_Sea/pseuds/Crone_of_the_Western_Sea
Summary: Inspector Valentine finds himself falling in love with a suspect in a murder investigation. Father Brown assists him in finding the murderer, and by pushing the budding romance along. This story explains why Valentine was so keen to leave Kembleford.





	1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

 

‘Bless me Father, for I have sinned.’

 

Father Brown, invisible to the penitent on the other side of the grille, raised his eyebrows. Market day confessions often revealed surprises. Ostensibly, being available for confessions for an hour on days when the busy fortnightly market was held in Kembleford was for the convenience of farmers and travelling traders who didn’t live in the town proper, but mostly Father Brown heard his usual parishioners, carrying a heavy burden of sin that they did not want to be seen discussing. It was not unusual for Father Brown to listen to a single penitent for the entire hour. But on this spring day, although the voice asking for absolution was familiar to him, it was not one he had heard in the confessional before. The voice continued.

 

‘It has been many years since my last confession, probably not since I joined up in 1940.’ There was a long pause, and Father Brown could hear papers being shuffled. ‘Recently, I have experienced lustful thoughts about a woman.’

 

Father Brown decided that it was time to end the charade that he didn’t know exactly who was speaking. ‘Inspector, there must be more to it than that. I doubt you would break your long absence from confession merely because of being preoccupied by a woman.’

 

Inspector Valentine sighed. ‘The woman is a suspect in a murder investigation, and I now have evidence that would justify at least bringing her in for questioning under caution. Because of my … feelings for her … I am tempted to pretend that I haven’t received these documents’ – again Father Brown could hear papers being shuffled – ‘or even to destroy them.’

 

‘That _is_ serious. Perhaps we should discuss this elsewhere so that I can see the documents and get the full story. The presbytery is empty this afternoon. We won’t be disturbed.’

 

 

_Four days earlier_

 

Valentine walked into the house, a grand stone edifice on the outskirts of Kembleford. Several officers were already at work, photographing the crime scene and dusting for fingerprints. Sergeant Albright was speaking to a woman in a black suit.

 

When Valentine reached them, Albright read from his notebook. ‘The deceased is Henry Marshall, aged 59, stockbroker, stabbed multiple times in the back while apparently working at the desk in his study. His body was found this morning by the parlour maid, but we don’t yet have an estimated time of death. It seems like the last time he was seen alive was at dinner, which finished shortly before 8 last night. Also in the house were his wife, his 15-year-old stepdaughter and the household staff, including Miss Claire Byrne,’ he said, indicating the woman standing next to him.

 

‘I’ll need to take statements from everyone who was in the house between dinner last night and the time the body was discovered this morning’, Valentine said, and turned to the woman in black. ‘I can start with you, Miss Byrne.’

She nodded. ‘The dining room is free, and quiet, if you’d like to talk there.’ Valentine gestured that she should show him the way.

 

They sat across from each other at the dining table, an ashtray having been found for Valentine, who now lit a fresh cigarette and evaluated the woman on the other side of the table. Claire Byrne was around his age, 40ish, with even features that would likely be described as ‘handsome’ rather than ‘pretty’. She had clearly dressed after the murder was discovered, wearing a tailored black suit (while not in the Lady Felicia category of style, the suit was well-cut and the fabric looked expensive) and a small gold crucifix on a chain around her neck. She looked well-rested, not as if she had spent the night worrying about a murder. Her manner was calm and professional. The only evidence that she might be feeling the stress of being in the middle of a murder investigation was that her hair was not as carefully put up as it might have been, and a few tendrils of brown hair escaped down the back of her long, pale neck. Tortoiseshell-frame spectacles made her grey eyes look slightly larger than they actually were.

 

‘Were you Mr Marshall’s secretary?’

 

‘No. I’m the tutor – Mr Marshall preferred “governess” but I prefer “tutor” – to Mr Marshall’s step-daughter, Stephanie. His wife, Isobel, was a war widow, and he adopted her daughter when they married in 1946. He thought that Stephanie was running wild with the neighbourhood children in London, and decided that she should be educated at home. Isobel found me through a mutual acquaintance. I had been working in the Ministry of Transport during the War, but I was required to vacate my job for a returning serviceman after the War was over, and I found that I couldn’t easily go back to my pre-war job at Cambridge University either. The offer of a well-paid tutoring position was a life-saver for me, and Henry Marshall liked the idea of his step-daughter being taught by a Cambridge woman, so my lack of previous experience teaching children was overlooked.’

 

‘Did you live in with the family?’

 

‘Yes.’

 

‘What kind of man was Henry Marshall?’

 

‘He was a monster. I am in no degree sorry that he’s dead. And before you ask, after dinner last night I returned to my room, where I read for two or three hours before going to sleep. I spoke to no one after dinner, and therefore have no alibi for the time when he is likely to have been killed.’ She looked at Valentine directly, even defiantly.

 

He made a note that her room should be searched before she was allowed to return there. He continued his questions. ‘Why do you describe him as a monster?’

 

For the first time, her calm evaporated. She leaned forward and spoke forcefully. ‘Almost from the moment they married, Henry Marshall abused his wife. At first it was mostly a matter of controlling who she saw and how she raised Stephanie. Engaging me may well be the last major decision Isobel took without seeking his approval first. After a year or so, the abuse began to be physical – when he was angry with her, he would grab her by the wrist and twist her arm. I could see that he was causing her pain. He certainly didn’t care that he did such things in front of me, or even in front of Stephanie.’ She paused, took a deep breath, and continued. ‘Last year, matters became immeasurably worse. One night, Isobel came to my room in the middle of the night, in tears. She was trembling and in agony. When she was calm enough to speak she told me that Henry had come in after she was asleep and forced himself on her. After that night, the same thing happened again and again.’

 

‘Why didn’t you report this to the police?’

 

‘Isobel didn’t want me to do anything. I did speak to a barrister in London, a man I know from when we were students at Cambridge before the War.’ Her voice took on a bitter tone. ‘He told me that in law a man cannot rape his wife, so Henry Marshall couldn’t be charged for that. He also told me’ she said, looking Valentine in the eye, ‘that the police would be very unlikely to take complaints of wife beating seriously, particularly concerning a man of wealth and position like Henry Marshall.’ By now she was shaking slightly with anger.

 

Valentine stood up and slammed his hand down on the table. ‘No! I won’t have that. I for one do take husbands abusing their wives very seriously indeed. If you had come to me a year ago, I couldn’t have charged Marshall with rape, but I would have found a way to put him in prison – grievous bodily harm, aggravated assault, _something._ ’

 

They stared at each other silently for some time. Valentine wasn’t sure how long it was, because he was horrified to realise that what he wanted to do, right that minute, was to go to the other side of the table, pull Claire Byrne into his arms and kiss her. He was captivated. Her intelligence, her loyalty, her courage in speaking out to him – without meaning to, she had stormed his emotional defences.

 

Fortunately, he didn’t have to think of what to say next. Sergeant Albright came in and asked him to come into the study. Valentine left Miss Byrne in the dining room, asking her to wait for his return. In the study, he saw the late Henry Marshall slumped over his desk, the knife still in his back. A young woman in a maid’s uniform stood near the large open window behind the desk. On the other side of the room was another woman, in her mid to late 30s. Even sobbing and distressed, she was a very attractive woman, and probably in her youth had been a beauty. This must be Isobel Marshall.

 

Sergeant Albright explained the situation. ‘Inspector, there seems to be some disagreement as to whether the window was open when the body was discovered this morning. Mrs Marshall is certain that the window was open, but Sophie Albertson, who is employed as parlour maid, says it was closed.’

 

Sophie spoke: ‘I opened the study door this morning, and when I saw Mr Marshall like that, I screamed. Mrs Marshall and Miss Byrne came right away and I didn’t go into the room at all. Miss Byrne told me to lock the door and to call the police right away. I’m sure that the window behind the desk was closed.’

 

Valentine turned to Isobel Marshall, ‘And you are equally sure that the window was open?’

 

‘Yes’, she whispered. ‘Someone could have come in during the night and stabbed Henry.’

 

‘Albright, ask Miss Byrne to come here, and don’t mention the window. Mrs Marshall, Miss Albertson, please, both of you keep silent while I ask Miss Byrne what she remembers. Do not say a word.’

 

_In the presbytery kitchen_

 

Father Brown had made tea while Valentine related his tale of the murder investigation and they sat at the kitchen table in the presbytery with mugs of tea in front of them. Valentine’s tea was untouched. ‘Every day, I go to the house and oversee the officers there. I’ve interviewed Mrs Marshall, Miss Stephanie Marshall and all the staff. Every room in the house has been searched. The night Marshall was murdered was cold, so there were fires in the bedrooms, and new fires started by the maids in the morning before the body was discovered. Evidence, like bloodstained clothing, could easily have been burned. I am no further ahead than I was on the day the murder was reported. Most likely it was done by someone in the house, and Henry Marshall was keenly disliked by everyone who worked for him. He paid his staff generously, which was the only reason he was able to keep anyone employed in that house, but he expected that they obey him unquestioningly and put up with criticism and insults on a regular basis.’

 

He concluded his review of the situation with, ‘Every day, I speak to Miss Byrne and I am still fascinated by her. But after the first day, she seemed much more wary of me.’

 

‘I know that you have to consider her a suspect because she was in the house, and she admits to having animosity towards the victim, but do you really think that she might have killed him?’, asked Father Brown.

 

Valentine sighed. ‘She is intelligent and cool-headed enough to have covered her tracks if she had killed him. She clearly feels very protective towards Isobel and Stephanie Marshall. She has no alibi – but then again, no one in the house does. No one claims to have seen Marshall after dinner, and because we don’t know for sure whether or not the window was open and for how long, which would affect the room temperature, we can’t narrow down the time of death with much accuracy. Which brings us to this’ he said, gesturing towards the papers he had been carrying, which he had now laid on the kitchen table. ‘Henry Marshall’s will. In it, although his wife and step-daughter are the main legatees, he leaves £10,000 to Claire Byrne in recognition of her dedication in educating his step-daughter. So she also has a financial motive for wanting Henry Marshall dead, if she knew about the legacy. If this was anyone else, I would have arrested her as soon as I saw the will. But I can’t bring myself to believe that she is a murderer. My emotions are getting in the way of my ability to investigate this crime. Normally, Father, your meddling in my investigations is unwelcome in the extreme, but this time, I’m in over my head and I need your help. And by the way, I consider that we are still under the seal of the confessional, so you may never repeat that to _anyone, ever._ ’

 

Father Brown leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. ‘Tell me again about what happened when you asked Miss Byrne about the window.’

 

‘Albright brought her into the study, and I asked her to describe what had happened when the body was found. Everything Miss Byrne said was consistent with what Sophie Albertson had told me – she heard the maid scream and ran down from her bedroom, which she estimated took less than a minute. Mrs Marshall, whose bedroom was a bit further down the same corridor, arrived a few seconds later. She saw Marshall’s body as we saw it, with the knife in his back. She instructed the maid to lock the study and call the police.’

 

‘And the window?’

 

‘I asked her whether anything was different about the room at that point compared to what she saw when she came down in the morning. The only differences she described were things that had been moved by my officers. Then I asked her specifically whether the window was open when they found the body. She closed her eyes and seemed to be thinking, but said in the end that she couldn’t remember. In her memory, she said, anything beyond Marshall’s body was a blur.’

 

‘Where was she standing when she said that?’

 

‘In the middle of the room, facing me.’

 

‘Where was Isobel Marshall standing?’

 

‘Behind me.’

 

‘And after that, her attitude towards you changed? Less open, more guarded?’

 

‘Yes, I think so.’

 

‘I have good news for you, Inspector. I am convinced that Miss Byrne is not the murderer. In fact, I believe that if she had been the murderer, she would have confessed by now. I agree that she is driven to protect Isobel and Stephanie Marshall. But I don’t think that she killed Henry Marshall to protect them. I think she is trying to prevent you from discovering that Isobel Marshall is the murderer. I think she saw something in Isobel Marshall’s reaction to her response about the window which persuaded her that Mrs Marshall had opened the window after the body was discovered.’

 

‘In that case, I think I will need to question Mrs Marshall again,’ Valentine said. ‘May I use your telephone? I need to call Sergeant Albright to meet me at the Marshall house.’

 

_Later that afternoon_

 

Sophie Albertson opened the door to Inspector Valentine, Sergeant Albright and Father Brown, who had insisted on coming along. Valentine said he had no time to argue about it, but that Father Brown must not interfere with his interrogation. As soon as they entered the foyer of the house, they could hear shouting coming from the study.

 

‘I won’t allow you to take Stephanie away from me.’ That was Isobel Marshall’s voice, choked and emotional.

 

‘I’m not taking her away. Stephanie is being upset by having police in and out of the house all the time, and she’s had nightmares about the murder. Lady Felicia has kindly invited her to stay until everything settles down here, and I will go over there each day to continue with lessons as normally as possible. I’m not leaving and I’m certainly not trying to keep you from Stephanie.’ Claire Byrne was trying her best to calm Isobel Marshall down.

 

‘I don’t believe you. I think you’ve been trying to lure Stephanie away for a long time. You have no child of your own, and you want to take mine!’

 

‘Isobel, please. You know I am your friend and I want to help both of you. Why don’t you go too? I’m sure Lady Felicia would be happy to have you as well as Stephanie.’

 

‘So you can steal from me? So you can lie to the police and convince them that I murdered my husband? I won’t allow it!’

 

After that, there was a cry, and a thud. Valentine, Albright and Father Brown, having been transfixed by the argument, now ran to the study. They saw Isobel Marshall holding a bloody paper knife, and Claire Byrne slumped motionless against the wall of the study, blood soaking the front of her white blouse. Valentine went immediately to Isobel and with a handkerchief took the knife from her hand.

 

‘Isobel Marshall, I am arresting you on suspicion of murder of Henry Marshall, and for the murder-’

 

Everyone turned as Claire groaned, regaining consciousness after having been knocked out by hitting her head against the wall as she fell.

 

‘The _attempted_ murder of Claire Byrne,’ Valentine said, fighting the feeling that his legs were about to buckle underneath him. He quickly concluded his recitation of the arrest and caution, then handed the handkerchief-wrapped knife to Albright. He called to Sophie, who was standing in the doorway, ‘Bring me towels and a blanket. Now!’

 

He examined Claire and saw that there was only one wound, where the knife had sliced into her shoulder. The wound itself was unlikely to be fatal, but he needed to stop the bleeding. When Sophie returned with the towels and blanket, Valentine folded a towel over the shoulder wound, and secured it with his necktie. He wrapped Claire in the blanket and picked her up gently. ‘I’m taking Miss Byrne to the hospital. Albright, bring Mrs Marshall to the station and start the arrest paperwork. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

 

 

_That evening_

 

Valentine sat next to Claire’s hospital bed, still tie-less, with the intention of taking her statement about the stabbing. The shoulder wound had been cleaned and bandaged, and her concussion pronounced to be minor. She would need several days’ rest before she could resume work but would make a full recovery, although she would have a permanent scar on her shoulder.

 

‘I don’t want Isobel to be charged with anything for attacking me, and certainly not attempted murder,’ she said. ‘I don’t think she wanted to kill me. She just wanted to stop me from leaving the house with Stephanie.’

 

Valentine scowled at her refusal. ‘That will be up to the DPP. In any event, I need a full account of what happened. I also need to know why you didn’t tell me that you knew that Mrs Marshall had murdered her husband.’

 

‘I didn’t know for sure. When I said that I couldn’t remember whether the window was open or not – and I was being entirely honest when I said that – I saw relief in her eyes, and the tension go out of her body. I didn’t dare ask her, but from her reaction, I thought that Isobel must have opened the window after Henry’s body was discovered so that it looked like an intruder had killed him. But I felt like it would be betraying her to tell you something that was nothing more than my interpretation of her body language.’

 

‘That was reckless on your part. Surely you realised that you were just as much a suspect as she was? Once I knew that Mr Marshall had left you a large legacy in his will, you appeared to have a strong motive, particularly combined with your obvious desire to protect Isobel and Stephanie Marshall. You had no alibi. Before Mrs Marshall’s actions this afternoon, I could just as easily have constructed a credible case against you as against her. You could have been convicted, and possibly hanged.’

 

Her response shocked him. ‘That wouldn’t have been the worst thing, would it? My parents are dead, and I have no husband or children. There’s no one to care particularly about losing me. My death would not cause the devastation that Isobel’s would. Stephanie has already lost her father and seen her step-father abuse her mother. I don’t know whether she could bear losing her mother too, particularly in those circumstances. I would have fought all the way, but I wouldn’t have given up Isobel. I’m the only friend, the only support she has had throughout this horror of a marriage.’

 

‘But she attacked you. She accused you taking her child away from her.’

 

‘Henry Marshall broke her. First he broke her heart. Then he broke her body. In the end, he broke her mind too. I don’t blame her for what she did to me because I don’t think she was in her right mind.’

 

‘I think that Father Brown would say that you shouldn’t count your own life so cheaply.’

 

‘He probably would. I’m very tired, so you should go now. Perhaps you could send an officer tomorrow to take my statement formally. I’ve told you everything, and I don’t want to take up any more of your time.’ Claire’s eyes were full of tears, and she turned away from Valentine, who silently cursed himself. He left without another word, and drove through the back roads around Kembleford for a long time until his mind stopped racing. Then he stood leaning against his car and smoking while he looked up at the stars and asked the universe why this was happening to him. He may have solved the murder, but he had destroyed any chance of friendship, let alone more, with Claire Byrne.


	2. Chapter 2

 

**Chapter 2**

 

Spring had given way to summer, and a pleasant breeze drifted through the trees in the St. Mary’s churchyard. It was warm enough that Valentine strode to the church without an overcoat. He found Father Brown standing just inside.

 

‘I hope you have a good reason for dragging me away from the station,’ he grumbled.

 

‘I do – the best of reasons. Miss Byrne is outside. As you know, she has been staying with Lady Felicia since she was released from hospital. In half an hour, Sid will arrive with her luggage to drive her to the train station and she will leave Kembleford for London – permanently. She came to say good-bye. This is the last chance you will probably have to tell her that you love her.’

 

‘Love? I never said I loved her – and what I did tell you was under the seal of the confessional.’

 

‘I haven’t betrayed anything you said that day. The seal of the confessional is absolute. But what you said to me then wasn’t the truth, was it? You said you had lustful thoughts about her. What I observed suggests something different. Your reaction to her apparent death and then the realisation that she was still alive spoke of feelings much more profound than sexual desire. You dropped everything else to take her to hospital even though her injuries were clearly not life-threatening, as if she was the most important person in the world to you.’

 

‘I was only doing my duty.’

 

‘Inspector, at that moment, your priority in terms of duty should have been dealing with the arrest of Isobel Marshall. Sergeant Albright or one of the servants at the Marshall house could have taken Miss Byrne to the hospital. It didn’t have to be you.’

 

Valentine waved away Father Brown’s arguments and took a long drag on his cigarette. ‘What does it matter anyway? I’m sure that the sight of me is painful to her. I put her friend in prison. I questioned her frankness for not telling me her suspicions. The very first time we met, we had an argument. I would be fooling myself to think that any feelings I have for her might be returned.’

 

‘Inspector, you and I have had many disagreements, but I have never thought you a coward. What do you have to lose? She’s leaving Kembleford – if she rejects you, you will never see her again. And I don’t think that Miss Byrne is a lost cause.’

 

‘Look, Father, I never wanted anything like this to happen. I had decided that I would go through life alone. When I was younger, everything looked different. I was 25, a newly-minted detective constable and engaged to a girl who was so beautiful she made my head spin. I was completely in love. Then war came, and I signed up. I spent most of the war not knowing that almost immediately after I was posted abroad, she found someone else and married him within the year. After being betrayed like that, I didn’t think I could love anyone. Now I am in love – yes, I admit it – but I can’t face being rejected again. I _am_ a coward when it comes to Claire Byrne.’

 

‘I’m sure that’s not true, Inspector, and moreover, I don’t think you have anything to fear in this instance. When she spoke of you to me, it was with admiration, not anger. You have barely more than twenty minutes now. Remember, “Faint heart never won fair lady.”’

 

Valentine knew when he was beaten. He allowed Father Brown to point out where Claire was standing in the church graveyard, and walked over. She was standing in front of Henry Marshall’s headstone, frowning. She was wearing an emerald-green dress – it was the first time he had seen her dressed in a colour, not just black or white (even the hospital gown had been white). Her hair was loose, not up in the usual twist, and the sight of waves of chestnut hair against the deep green fabric almost overwhelmed him.

 

‘This was the last place I would expect to find you, Miss Byrne.’

 

‘I think I wanted to make sure he was still dead,’ she replied, still staring at the headstone. ‘Some monsters need to be killed more than once, and monsters like him can take hold of your mind if you’re not careful.’

 

She looked up from the headstone, and smiled. ‘I’m glad you’re here, Inspector. I had thought of going over to the station, but I didn’t want to disturb you. I wanted to thank you for everything you did for Isobel.’

 

‘I arrested her and had her charged and tried. You could say that she’s sitting in prison now because of me.’

 

‘Because of you, she is serving a jail sentence for manslaughter rather than awaiting execution for murder. You had a doctor examine her after you arrested her, so the injuries that Henry Marshall inflicted on her were documented. You had a psychiatrist interview her, and give a diagnosis of her mental state at the time of the murder. That information persuaded the prosecutor that it was more appropriate to charge her with manslaughter than with murder. Because of you, Stephanie Marshall still has a mother. I still have my friend. She and I talked after the trial, and she begged my forgiveness. Of course, there was nothing to forgive as far as I’m concerned. I have agreed to be Stephanie’s guardian while Isobel is in prison. That’s one of the reasons why I’m leaving Kembleford. Stephanie wants to go to a boarding school so that she can be around other girls her own age again, and we’ve settled on one not far from London. The woman I boarded with during the war can have me back, and even provide a room for Stephanie when she’s home for school holidays. So everything is settled, at least for now. I don’t know if Father Brown told you, but I’m leaving today. I’m looking forward to being anonymous again, rather than being a supporting player in a local scandal. It’s been harder and more exhausting than I ever expected to be the target of gossip and suspicion every time I go to town. Even Lady Felicia’s support doesn’t seem to be adequate protection. So I’m glad to be leaving, even though there are some people I will miss.’ She smiled again, giving Valentine some hope that he was amongst that group of people.

 

Father Brown was right, Valentine thought. It was now or never. ‘Before you go,’ he said, ‘there’s something I need to say to you. I wanted to say this when I saw you in hospital after Mrs Marshall attacked you, but if I had said it then, I would have had to walk away from the case and let someone else complete the investigation. When you said that if you were tried and executed for murder, no one would care, no one would be devastated by the loss of you, you were wrong. I would care. From the first day we met and we argued about what could have been done to stop Henry Marshall from abusing his wife, I have admired you more than you can imagine. When I thought Isobel Marshall had killed you, I was devastated. When you said no one would care if you were executed, I already knew how I would be affected by losing you.’

 

Without noticing it, Valentine had approached Claire as he spoke. The tips of his oxfords were now touching the tips of her grey suede court shoes. She didn’t step away, but looked up at him. Encouraged, he took her hands in his. ‘I didn’t dare hope for this,’ she said. ‘I thought that I had insulted you thoroughly on that first day, and then made it worse by withholding what I had seen of Isobel’s reactions after the murder. I thought you were angry with me.’

 

‘I was angry because you had put yourself at risk, and nearly got yourself killed. And even then I was less angry at you than scared for you.’

 

A breeze wafted up her scent, something like wildflowers, and blew a few strands of hair across her face. Valentine brushed her hair away, and she leaned her face into his hand. He summoned up one last push of courage, and kissed her, his hands resting now on her waist. She placed one gloved hand on his shoulder and the other on the back of his neck in the gap where his opened shirt collar stood away from his neck. Time stood still.

 

Except, of course, it didn’t. A cough behind Valentine caused them to pull away from each other, both looking slightly embarrassed as Father Brown approached, saying, ‘I hear Sid pulling up in front of the church, Miss Byrne. If you’re not ready to leave yet, I can delay him a few minutes, but you won’t want to miss your train.’

 

‘Yes, please, Father. Could you ask Sid to wait for me at the car?’

 

‘I’ll do that.’

 

As Father Brown walked back to the church, Claire looked up at Valentine expectantly. He asked, ‘May I visit you in London? I’d like to spend time with you without a murder investigation hanging over our heads.’

 

‘I’d like that,’ Claire responded. ‘Shall I give you my address and phone number there?’

 

Valentine handed her his notebook and pencil. When she had finished writing and handed it back, he tore out the page and put it in his waistcoat pocket. He didn’t want it getting mixed up with notes from an investigation. ‘Will the woman you’re boarding with object to you having a male visitor?’

 

Claire laughed. ‘Oh, Gwen is nothing like that. She’s not some censorious old lady. She’s an artist and quite Bohemian. If she objects to you at all, it will be because you are a policeman, not because you have designs on her boarder.’

 

‘I’ll keep that in mind.’

 

Sid sounded the horn on the Rolls. Claire took Valentine’s hand again, and asked, ‘Would you come with me to the train station? I’m not ready to say goodbye just yet.’

 

He nodded and walked with her to the car. To Valentine’s surprise, Sid said nothing as he sat down next to Claire in the back of the Rolls. Presumably Father Brown had warned him to keep quiet, at least for Claire’s sake. Sid would be more likely to want to spare her feelings than his. They rode to the station in silence, holding each other’s hands tightly, as if the other would drift away if either were to loosen his or her grip. At the station, Sid arranged with a porter to have Claire’s bags loaded on to the baggage car. Claire and Valentine stood on the platform, shy now that they weren’t alone, although none of the few waiting passengers seemed to take any notice of them. Then the train was called. Claire stood on tip-toe and kissed Valentine. He pulled her as close as he could and returned the kiss. Reluctantly, they pulled apart and he helped her into her carriage. ‘Please, call me soon,’ she pleaded, her hand still in his as the train pulled away, until the distance was too great even for their fingertips to touch.

 

Valentine turned to see Sid’s smirking face. ‘Now that you’ve finished re-enacting _Brief Encounter_ , can I drop you off at the police station on my way back to Lady Felicia?’

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief Encounter isn't exactly the same story as this, but it's a famous film from around that time (1945 to be exact) and is set at a train station, so it seemed a good choice for Sid to use to tease Valentine.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place around the time of the episode ‘The Ghost in the Machine’.

**Chapter 3**

Valentine stared at his reflection in the mirror, and began shaving carefully around his beard. The beard had become to him a symbol of his Monday-to-Friday discontent. The extra care required to keep it tidy and the skin around it shaved smooth demanded sufficient concentration that he could stop himself thinking about how much he wanted to be out of Kembleford. Once at the police station, he worked long hours to minimise time spent alone in his cottage. He read every Home Office circular in detail. He checked and double-checked all the paperwork destined for the County Constabulary or the Home Office in London. This at least elicited some measure of praise from the Chief Constable that Kembleford’s records had the fewest errors of any in Gloucestershire. But that didn’t seem to be enough to lead to approval of his request for transfer to London – the transfer he had applied for the week after Claire Byrne left Kembleford for the capital.

 

The beard was, to some extent, an accident. He grew it while bedridden for two weeks with the flu. Mrs McCarthy effectively became his nurse, bringing homemade soup each day and changing the sheets on his bed. He drew the line, however, at being given a sponge bath and performed his own ablutions, however minimal. Shaving was beyond him for most of that time, and when he had shaken off the flu, he went to the barber and asked for the beard to be trimmed rather than shaved off. The beard distracted the town gossips too. His increasing eccentricity was discussed over tea across Kembleford. Mrs McCarthy helped to encourage gossip in that direction. Before his illness, the only people in Kembleford to know about his relationship with Claire Byrne were Father Brown, Sid and Lady Felicia (she had berated Sid for returning late from the station on the day Claire left for London, so he had had to explain himself; Lady Felicia was of course entranced by the story). During his illness, Valentine asked Mrs McCarthy to post letters to Claire for him. For a day or two, she was annoyed with him and with Father Brown for having kept her in the dark, but soon her heart melted. She was moved by Valentine’s obvious devotion and the romance of the situation. After that, at every opportunity, she encouraged the growing consensus that Valentine was becoming an eccentric old bachelor and steered people away from noticing that he seemed to go to London far more often than could be justified by police business.

 

Valentine lived for those London visits. On most Saturdays, he rose early and drove to the nearest station where he could get a fast train to Paddington, returning on the last train at night. Occasionally, he could justify a mid-week visit, when there was a plausible reason to go to Scotland Yard.

 

For nearly a year, that was Valentine’s life. He hated being apart from Claire, but he could see that her London life was good for her. She continued to tutor – parents were willing to pay high fees for Claire to prepare their children for the Oxford and Cambridge entrance examinations. Gwen, the artist landlady, was open and generous and happy for Valentine to visit whenever he wanted. Gwen was, in Valentine’s amused opinion, ‘the worst chaperone in England’, often deciding that she needed to do something in her attic studio when he was there, leaving Claire and Valentine alone in the sitting room. Claire was Gwen’s only boarder now. Her children, including a daughter the same age as Stephanie, were away at boarding school. Valentine suspected that Gwen had taken Claire back as a boarder more out of friendship than financial need. They giggled like schoolgirls together, particularly as Claire re-learned her cookery skills after seven years of living in a house with servants. Within a few months of leaving Kembleford, Claire looked happier and healthier, and years younger.

 

Valentine loved the light-hearted Claire as much as he loved the serious and intense woman he met while investigating Henry Marshall’s murder. They walked around the great museums of the capital, playing a game that Claire devised where they would invent stories – the more outrageous the better – about the people portrayed in paintings or sculptures. They sat through countless films, his arm around her, her head resting against his shoulder. He discovered that she didn’t like scary films, and would lean in closer when she felt frightened by something on the screen. When Stephanie was on school holidays, he would take them both out for tea and cake. The first time, Stephanie was shy with him, but soon opened up and even asked, to Claire’s embarrassment and his amusement, whether he and Claire would get married soon.

 

As for marriage, well, it all depended on that blasted transfer. Valentine worried that Claire might become discouraged and end their relationship. She did once suggest that maybe she should come back to Kembleford after all, but he rejected that option out of hand. The gossip would be intolerable for her. He didn’t want to lose his light-hearted Claire.

 

Then came the mysteries surrounding the McGinley family and the solution to the long-standing questions around Elspeth Grainger’s disappearance. Father Brown, as usual, figured out the puzzle of it, although Valentine, crucially, found Charlotte and Selina McGinley and Father Brown trapped in the secret passage between the McGinley home and St. Mary’s. _Finally_ , the long-awaited transfer was approved, with the bonus of a promotion. When he received the news, he drove to London as soon as he could get away, stopping only at a florist and a wine merchant on his way.

 

He arrived at Gwen’s Victorian terrace in Marylebone in the late afternoon, as the sun was starting to lower in the sky. Although it was early summer, a chill was in the air. Valentine’s face fell when Gwen answered the door. ‘Claire’s out in the garden,’ Gwen replied, responding to Valentine’s bereft expression. ‘I need to speak to her immediately,’ he said, pushing past Gwen and making his way towards the back of the house. ‘Shall I put that champagne on ice while you speak to Claire? And then I think I’ll go upstairs and finish some sketches.’ Gwen winked, understanding what was going on. Valentine handed her the bottle and continued through to the garden.

 

Claire was tying raspberry canes to stakes, giving support to their weight of ripening fruit. Her hair was covered with a scarf and she wore gardening gloves and an old sweater and trousers discarded by Gwen’s rapidly-growing teenaged son. Valentine called out to her and she ran towards him down the long, narrow garden, tossing aside the gloves. He held out the bouquet of deep-red roses he was carrying, and bowed. ‘With the compliments of Detective Chief Inspector Valentine of the Metropolitan Police,’ he said.

 

‘The transfer! It came through!’ she exclaimed, taking the flowers. ‘Yes,’ he replied, reaching one arm around her so as not to crush the bouquet. ‘ _And_ a promotion. Now we can be together.’ The last sentence was whispered, a prelude to kissing her deeply.

 

After the kiss, he stepped back and fell to one knee. He was going to do this properly. He took her hand. ‘Claire Byrne, will you marry me?’

 

‘Yes,’ came the reply. ‘There is nothing in the world that would make me happier.’ He stood and wiped a tear from her cheek. ‘The first time I saw you cry, in the hospital when you were injured, I hated being the cause of your tears. This makes up for it. These tears are beautiful to me.’

 

They kissed again. The roses fell softly to the ground.

**Author's Note:**

> Until a House of Lords decision in 1991, marital rape was not a crime in English law. In essence, the law said that once a woman had consented to marriage, she had given an open and continuous consent to sex within the marriage. Although the courts started restricting the scope of 'marital rape' from 1949, there was a reported decision in 1954 where an accused was acquitted of raping his wife because of the defence. What Claire and Valentine discuss in chapter 1 is an accurate statement of the legal situation at the time that the television show is set.
> 
> In the show, I don't believe Valentine's family situation is ever mentioned. He has a photograph of a young child on his desk, and in The Ghost in the Machine, there is also a photograph of a young woman in his office. I choose to believe that these are photographs of a beloved sister and nephew (possibly a godson).


End file.
